


rain on my parade

by diapason



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Fear, Feels, Found Family, Gen, IRL Fic, Light Angst, SBI meetup, Sleepy Bois Inc-centric, Vague angst, Wilbur Soot-centric, claustrophobic tommyinnit, featuring gratuitous logical explanation of how sbi would coordinate their meetup, hypochondriac wilbur, over-planner wilbur, philza minecraft? afraid of something? only in this fic, techno's a human man. this is weird for all involved.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diapason/pseuds/diapason
Summary: Wilbur's always been a bit paranoid about getting things perfect. But he's planned the SBI meetup for MONTHS, and now it's finally happening, and theoretically everything will turn out perfectly.Of course, theory doesn't always translate into practice.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 45
Kudos: 440
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	rain on my parade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImThatAcroBat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImThatAcroBat/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAI U R BIG GIRL NOW I HOPE U ENJOY

Theoretically, everything is going to go perfectly.

Then again, Wilbur has never quite been able to translate theory into practice.

He's always been a bit paranoid about getting things perfect. It’s connected to his hypochondria, he supposes - one thing a little out of place, one cough at the wrong time, and visions of everything crashing down around him will inundate him. It’s why he plans so far in advance, and if it isn't planned, it isn't happening. No, it never quite works out  _ exactly  _ how his mental vision predicts, but the planning helps to get stuff as close as possible to perfect, and perfect calms his nerves, so planning is the way.

He's planned the SBI meetup for MONTHS, and now it's finally happening, and theoretically everything will turn out perfectly.

So. 7:30am, first alarm goes off. He's already awake, staring into the pillow, watching the sky lighten from his half-open curtains across the room, waiting for it. He sits up. Gives himself half an hour for the internet. Techno's texted at 4am,  _ boarding,  _ no emojis, no flourishes, classic straight-to-the-point Techno. Perfect.

8am he gets up, he gets dressed, he gets himself some breakfast. Roommates come in and out of the kitchen, fumbling for last minute things they've forgotten. Wilbur wishes them a nice trip, they wish him a nice hosting. The door to the flat slams a little before 9 when Wilbur is brushing his teeth. Perfect.

The train (which he's pre-purchased the online ticket for, and printed it just in case) to Gatwick is only half an hour's ride, but it's another twenty minutes to walk to the station, so call it an hour and he should set off at 12 with time to grab a meal deal on the way. Techno lands about then, but with all the mess of alighting the plane and baggage reclaim and hellish American security on both ends he'll hopefully come out the other side just in time to meet everyone. Phil drops him a text.  _ Just made it to Tommy's, kettle is on.  _ He'll be having a pit stop with Mother and Fatherinnit, then it's back on the road with an extra child in tow. Perfect.

In the time between Phil starting the second leg of his journey and Will beginning the first of his, he preps the flat a little more thoroughly. He's scheduled online shopping to bring supplies on day two, hoping they'll be bored enough to make a day of SBI Take Sainsbury's by day five. There's milk and eggs and bread and butter. There's diet coke for Tommy and miscellaneous energy drinks and alcohol for the rest of them. There's so, so many auxiliary bags of Doritos in the cupboard, just in case. Perfect.

He tidies the surfaces and counts up towels and makes doubly sure he's bought in spare toothpaste and bog roll, because the last thing he needs is an emergency Tesco run in the middle of the night because one of his best mates needs paper. He sorts the blankets out in the living room, because it's where he usually hangs out with mates, and presumably this time will be no different. When his phone alarm goes off again, he pulls on his shoes and his coat and he jangles the keys in his pocket to make sure they're in place below his wallet and he heads downstairs to walk to the train station and he boards the Gatwick express with time to spare. Perfect.

Tommy texts him  _ Maps says 14 minutes  _ when the train pulls in and he slips around families and businesspeople with suitcases and heavy backpacks to head up to the South Terminal arrivals gate. The board above his head lets him know that the 12:17 Virgin Atlantic flight is well and truly landed - he's looking for a green flannel shirt and a black suitcase. It doesn't matter, though, because after only a few minutes of waiting he looks up from his phone and a younger man's eyes have locked on to his with instant familiarity and comfort. Techno's found him. They greet each other warmly and he does a full 180 to take them right back outside to the pickup area, where Phil's unassuming silver car flashes its lights at them from down a queue of similarly waiting vehicles. Tommy's in the front seat, and Will sees Techno's eyes silently laughing at the image of Phil being visibly the shortest out of all of them, even from his sitting position. They stash Techno's bags and buckle up to head back south to Brighton. Perfect.

The sky is a little overcast, but it does nothing to dampen the sunshine that they've created in the car. Tommy complains a little of motion sickness, but he's been in the car for three hours, so it's only fair, and besides he doesn't throw up on Phil's interior so it's nothing to worry about. Techno is falling asleep a little because he couldn't manage it on the flight, but Wilbur doesn't mind it when his head is suddenly bumping into Will's shoulder, and if Phil or Tommy spots it in the rearview mirror they don't mention it. They pull up at the closest available parking slot and Phil grabs the suitcase as they all head up to Wilbur's flat. Jangle of the keys, click of the lock, and four friends collapse on to one big sofa.

Perfect.

"Right, Phil, you've been driving for ages, you want a drink or anything?"

"Which tea are you on?"

"Yorkshire."

"I'll have a cup of that, then."

"Tommy?"

"You said you'd have diet coke in."

"Coming right up. Techno?"

Silence. Then a slow shake of the head.

"Nothing for Techno."

So he gets the rest of them drinks. Phil savours his cup of tea even more slowly than Wilbur, which is usually a rarity in his regular company - Tommy almost seems to hear the beat drop of his Starting Soon music when he cracks his can open, head bobbing slightly with each metallic click, and he downs it in two or three. The kid's probably got an addiction, honestly, but who's Wilbur to blame him for that?

When he looks over at Techno, he's already asleep. They put the telly on while their jetlagged friend catches up with the timezone - it's not like they planned anything but relaxation and settling in for Day 1 anyway. Tommy seems to flip focus between the programme and his phone screen every few minutes, squishing himself up in the corner of the sofa, while Phil and Wilbur chat quietly about the journey and their plans for the week. Three vlogs, hopefully, and a "Minecraft But I Control The Mouse And My Friend Controls The Keyboard" tournament, to give them all plenty of content for the weeks to come.

When Wilbur gets up to draw the curtains, noticing the already weak daylight fading, he sees that the weather's gone from cloudy to outright rain. That's fine, though - it's the one thing you can never really predict, and this trip's been planned for long enough that by the time he could have checked the forecast it would be too late to change a thing.

Not quite perfect, then, but manageable.

He tries not to think about the eventualities that are probably not going to happen.

Instead he calls the other three to attention - Techno, who is now awake, leads the charge in calling to order food. They pick out pizzas and Wilbur is the one who heads down to collect from the front door of his apartment complex. The rain's really coming down in sheets now; this might well be a storm. Still, he tips the delivery driver, returns to his guests, and they eat around a very slow game of Uno.

"You know," Phil mentions, eyes casting over the crack in the curtains every so often, "the forecast actually said there might be flooding. So, you know, vlogs might be off the table."

"That would be pretty shit," Tommy comments through a mouthful of Meat Feast. "I had so many good ideas for the vlogs. I was gonna say some fucked up shit and just see what you thought about it."

"Fucked up like worst word you know, or fucked up like actually fucked up?" Wilbur checks.

"Nothing I wouldn't normally say, don't worry. Stabbings and that."

"What you consider normal will never cease to subvert my expectations," Techno quips.

"Well maybe you should do something about your expectations, because we've been mates for ages now."

"Maybe you should stop calling it normal to talk about stabbing people for minor inconveniences."

"Technoblade, that is my brand -"

"It's weird," Techno continues, unperturbed, "that you guys still call me Techno even though I'm right here. But also, like, it'd be weird if you didn't? I don't know. Don't change anything."

"Whatever you say, big man."

"If we can't go out for the vlogs, we can make content inside, right?" Wilbur wondered aloud. The disruption of his plan wasn't doing wonders for his usually minimal constant state of background anxiety - in fact, it was pulling it a little too close for comfort to the foreground.

"Yeah, no problem," Phil reassured him, placing a card down. "We're all already used to making content from home. If we can't get out, we'll just do that. SBI Makes Cookies or whatever you feel like."

"As if I have cookie making supplies just… in the cupboard, Phil?"

"I mean, you might. Not a lot of ingredients in cookie dough, as far as I know."

"I'm not exactly the most well-versed in baking. I do like how precise it is."

"That's the worst bit," Tommy protested, "you can't get fuckin' anything wrong if you're baking. If you make dinner, you forget something, it's fine, chuck it in later, you get away with it. If you make a cake and you forget something, it's ruined. I hate that."

"Well, maybe that's where the two of us go our separate ways, mainly because I never  _ do  _ get anything wrong if I'm baking."

"Memememememe, okay, Mr Perfect First Try, you fit all that ego in your massive fucking head, idiot?"

"You're so nice, Tommy. You really make me feel good about letting you stay in my flat for a full week."

"Good. I'm going to make it better just by - just with my presence alone."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely."

The night settles in. The rain carries on. Techno, luckily, starts to drowse again, and they all take it as their sign to wash up and retreat to their respective bedrooms.

"Wilbur?" Tommy murmurs as he's cozying himself into layers of blankets on an air mattress.

"Yeah?"

"Never mind, actually. Goodnight."

"G'night, Tom."

"Oh, don't call me that, it's weird. I'll call you William."

"Go ahead."

"I don't want to."

"Don't, then."

"Can you stop saying nothing? You're so annoying."

"I'm having a really great time with you staying over, Tommy, it's really worth it so far, no regrets."

"Sorry," the child grumbles.

"It's alright. I'll be right next door."

"Yeah, no shit, your flat is tiny."

"It's only meant to fit three people! You lot aren't stealing my flatmates' beds, of course it's tiny. Go to bed."

"I'm in bed."

"Go to sleep."

"I'll sleep when I fucking want to!"

"Goodnight, Tommy."

He closes the door on a muffled "goodnight, bitch," in response.

Techno's already back to sleep when he checks in on the other room. Phil's comfortably checking his phone on the sofa. Wilbur follows through with his evening routine and puts himself to bed.

It's not as quiet as he'd like. The rain patters a soft white noise that permeates his ears, his room, his entire flat. Still, he sleeps, hoping things will be better in the morning.

Except he wakes up, and his lock screen bears the warning that overnight, the rain has become a flood.

He sits in bed, bolt upright, flicking through to the rest of his notifications. Nothing of importance below the weather warning, thankfully.

First order of business? Check in on the rest of the gang.

Techno’s exactly where Wilbur left him, but he is awake, also on his phone. He looks up when Wilbur pops his head in the doorway.

“G’mornin’,” he starts. “This normal?”

“No,” admits Wilbur, “I got a flood warning. We might have to reschedule after all.”

“Alright. You look stressed.”

“No, I’m fine, don’t worry. We’ll work around. We’re improvisers by trade, we’ve got the power.”

“Yeah, no worries about the vlogs or whatever, I wanted to do the always-offscreen gag anyway, it’s all good. I’m just lookin’ out for  _ you.” _

Wilbur considers this, then scrunches his nose in response. “I’ll be alright. I’ve been planning for long enough. A bit of rain’s not gonna get in my way.”

“That’s good, that’s good. What do you have in for breakfast?”

“Everything you suggested. I wasn’t planning on doing anything wild for breakfast, especially not this early in the week, but there’s cereal and fruit and toaster waffles if you want those.”

“Pog.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he smiles. Techno grins right back. It’s weird to be able to see it, but nice.

Next, of course, is Tommy -

only he opens the door to Tommy’s room, and the floor-bed is empty.

“Tommy?”

No movement in the room.

“Tommy!”

“WhAT,” complains a distant voice - he immediately places it to the living room.

“Where the fuck have you gone,” he complains as he heads to the exact place where he knows Tommy will be.

“I’m literally just on the sofa,” Tommy calls, and then drastically un-raises his voice once Wilbur opens the door on them, “you don’t have to be so dramatic.”

He’s half-curled up with Phil. Phil, who’s already on another cup of tea - Phil, who’s still eyeing the window. Phil, who looks more like he’s the one being comforted than Tommy does.

“Flood warning,” Wilbur informs the pair, and Phil nods tersely.

“Actual flooding?” Tommy checks.

“That’s what BBC Weather Now told me.”

“Fuck. No vlog today, then.”

“No.”

“Are we gonna be able to get outside when the rain clears?”

“Should be. You could go out now if you brought your coat.”

“I brought  _ a _ coat.”

“Is it waterproof?”

“It’s water resistant, according to the label.”

“So it’s definitely not gonna stand against the literal flood weather storm. When the rain clears, that’s a different story, you’ll be alright then.”

“Good. I hate getting trapped in.”

“As if you go outside anyway,” he teases, one hand still messing with the door handle.

“I do, fuck off!”

“Really?”

“I like having the option,” Tommy offers by way of non-answer. “And besides. Vlog.”

“Fair enough. Phil, mate, are you alright?”

“Yeah. Always hated storms, though.”

Oh. That’s definitely a man in need of comfort, now he’s looking more closely. That’s borderline a man in fear.

“Do you - I mean, can I - help with anything?”

“Nah,” he smiles, and it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, “not like you can change the weather. If it gets loud I’ll put headphones on. Nothing to worry about.”

“Alright then,” Wilbur concedes.

And then a text comes through, from his landlord.  _ Basement flooded. If you were planning on doing laundry, don’t. -Management _

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters - and Tommy raises his eyebrows in expectant curiosity, so he relays the message “- there’s been a leak in the basement. Can’t go downstairs.”

Tommy’s eyebrows drop straight back down into a calculating frown. “Can’t go downstairs?”

“Yeah. We’re probably in here for the long haul, then.”

“Oh, fuuuuck thaaaat,” he complains, mouth shifting into an expression of contempt, “what did I JUST say about the options?”

“Tough shit, Toms. At least the TV still works in the rain.”

“As long as we’ve got internet,” Phil adds, eyes back on the far wall, darting slightly with every flash of lightning that gives way to the roll of thunder. Storm’s close, then.

“We should all tweet something cryptic,” he suggests - Tommy looks thankful for the idea, immediately digging his phone out. Wilbur hears movement behind him and turns to beckon Techno, who’s in a new set of clothes. “You know, really confuse people. Make them wonder what the fuck is happening.”

“Four-four crumbs,” Phil snickers - the smile’s a little more genuine this time.

“Exactly! What are we thinking?”

“You should all tweet Technoblade,” offers Technoblade.

“No,” Wilbur immediately shoots him down. It would be funny, but he’s not getting any more self-promo than he already has.

“We should each tweet one of the lyrics to Blitz, and -”

“Shut up!” Techno complains, the last syllable outstretched in playful irritation.

“If we tweeted a word each, and made them put it all together, we could send a secret message,” Phil points out.

“That’s a shout - but what would the message be?”

“Easy,” Techno smirks, “Subscribe To T-”

“Techno!” Tommy’s laughing, which is just great, because the last thing Techno needs is encouraging when he’s not even  _ live _ to have this bit land with more than the three people in the room, two of which are currently stressed as all fuck about the floods.

“Will, you look like you’re dying,” observes Phil. Fucking great, it’s  _ visible _ now.

“I’m fine,” he assures, “just surrounded by children.”

“I’m literally twenty-one!”

“You’re younger than me. That makes you child.”

“Hold on,” Tommy starts, “how old is Niki?”

“Tommy. Please. Shut the fuck up. Both of you. I’m just trying to get something  _ done.” _

And, surprisingly, “Sorry, Wilbur.”

And, less surprisingly, “My bad.”

He takes a deep breath. Lets it go. He can wrangle three streamers until the rain dies down. “We’ll have breakfast.”

They eat. They end up tweeting their own screen names at exactly the same time. Twitter, as predicted, goes apeshit.

The morning continues with no particular sign of the rain letting up. Wilbur pushes through it like honey - that is to say, with suffocating resistance on all sides. Tommy darts between rooms, looking increasingly antsy about the basement situation - Wilbur doesn’t tell him, therefore, when he gets a second text from the landlord reading  _ Chance the leak is going to hit ground floor so keep fire escape routes clear -Management.  _ Phil starts wearing his headphones at some point during the day and Wilbur doesn’t complain, because he’s been in that situation where he’d rather be listening to literally anything else than the thing that’s currently bothering him. Techno sticks to his phone and makes muted conversation with Wilbur when he passes through the kitchen - he’s, unexpectedly, the one to break the snack barrier. Tommy isn’t in the kitchen often enough to be on that duty.

At one point, Techno looks up at Wilbur and says, “do you think they’re gonna cancel my flight home?”

“No. There’s no way this lasts all week, definitely not enough to keep you off the plane. What are you stressing about that for?”

“I’m just a pretty anxious person, I guess. Like, if it could go wrong, I gotta think about it. I have a lot going on at home next week. I better not be grounded.”

“The only person who could ground you is Philza Minecraft,” Wilbur tries to joke. It’s poorly received.

Which is what leads him, by roughly 11:30am that day, to finally break free of the chokingly tense atmosphere that is his flat, and go and sit in the cold, vaguely blue-lit stairwell outside. His neighbours are nowhere in sight, which is good - they don’t need to see the way his fingers have finally started to tremble under the stress. God, it’s fucking  _ hard  _ hosting people he’s barely spent a full day with before, and it’s  _ scary _ knowing the storm, the one thing he couldn’t predict, has a chance of blocking off their exit to the outside world altogether, and it’s  _ draining _ trying to be there for all three of his mates and having absolutely nothing to show for it in response. He’d just wanted everything to be perfect, and now here he is, not even day fucking two, copping out to go have a mental breakdown on the concrete stairs.

Funny, how he can't quite force tears, when all he'd have to do is stick his hand out the window and it would come back wet enough to fake them.

And then someone opens the front door to the flat, and he whips his head around, and of  _ course  _ it's Tommyinnit.

"Hey, Will, I was wondering where you'd got to," he starts, uncharacteristically gentle, like he's dealing with a spooked animal.

"Alright?"

"Yeeeah. Why are you on the stairs when you could be… not there?"

"Oh, you know me, Tommy, just had to have a light mental breakdown. Get it out of the way, you know?"

"Fuck off," he responds, clearly not buying it, walking over to sit by Wilbur's side, two lanky young men entirely obstructing the passage of any hypothetical neighbours with their size across the stairs that are really only designed to fit one person walking rather than two people sitting anyway. "What's the problem?"

God damn it. When did Tommyinnit get so mature?

"What do you mean what's the problem?" he says instead. "It's not like it's easy taking care of you lot."

"You're  _ not  _ taking care of us. I've barely seen you all morning. What are you actually talking about?"

He shifts a little, and when he looks over he's staring directly into Tommy's blue eyes full of compassion and absent of any self-preservation. Damn it, something about the child just cracks him straight open. "It's just that I had everything so planned, so sorted, and then - and fucking rain had to come and - and flood all that out the window. Literally, Tommy, you've got no idea how hard I planned your guys' visit. And here we are, middle of the day, getting  _ nothing  _ done 'cause we went off plan."

Tommy cocks his head. "S'alright," he tries to soothe Wilbur, as already uneven breathing breaks to harsh and laboured, "you're alright, mate. Can't plan for everything."

"I  _ know,"  _ he shoots back, rolling his eyes, "that's the  _ problem.  _ I literally made SO SURE everything went off without a hitch yesterday, and now I'm fucking shaking because of a bit of bad weather. It's ridiculous."

"Hey, no need to feel stupid," Tommy reassures, and in that moment Wilbur knows the boy's looking straight into a mirror of his own face all the times he's needed comfort and counsel in the past. Stupid is what Tommy calls his own issues, the things that make him feel small. Stupid is the way that Tommy thinks Wilbur is seeing things right now.

"Aw, Tommy," slips out of his mouth far more easily than he ever intended it to.

"What? What?" Looks like that's confused Tommy, more than anything. "Why are you aww-ing? I'm supposed to be helping you, not farming awws. What did I even do?"

He reaches out an arm to wrap around the teenager, ignoring the shakes that are still champion of his extremities. "I'm just happy that you're here trying, is all. You're not supposed to be the one who helps  _ me  _ through problems, but you're still doing it."

"What do you mean? Of course I'll help you, you're my friend."

"Yeah, but… It's like helping Phil. It feels weird, cause he's older."

Tommy looks confused, and not just because he's still being held. "No? I was helping Phil earlier. I got up early because of the rain and he was having a rough time of it so I sat with him to help him out."

And that's… true, he supposes. "So you did."

"I'm not just  _ not  _ gonna help someone because they're older than me. You know, the whole big brother, dad thing is all well and good, but at the heart of it you're my mates, not my family. I've already got a family. You guys deserve to be treated exactly the same as you treat me."

And, well, Wilbur can't say he loves the way Tommy's tossing the family dynamic aside like that.

But he can absolutely say that it's a huge relief knowing Tommy won't let it stop him from taking care of his friends.

"You're a wonderful person, you know that, right, Tommy?"

"Shut up. I'm here instead of back in the warm, I can go any time."

"I mean it! You're literally such a great guy. You're gonna go so far. I'm gonna be the one bragging in twenty years' time, you know I used to be mates with Tommyinnit."

"Hey, that's so wrong!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, fuck "used to", of course we're still gonna be mates in twenty years' time."

The stairwell is cold and the rain is loud on the concrete exterior - but Tommy is a warm body to keep him company while he calms the fuck down about his plans all going haywire, and he'd be dead if he wasn't louder than some fuckin' raindrops. It's a comfort.

When they go back to the flat, Techno's waiting with a quip about how he'd assumed they were dead and taken the opportunity to steal their channels. Wilbur takes it in stride and suggests they make lunch together. After that, who knows? Maybe content. More than likely not content - Phil is still dealing with the storm, and none of them want to mess with him on that front - very likely more TV, more board games, more pointless conversations and hoping that delivery apps will be back on by the time it's time to eat again. If not, Wilbur's bought in enough food to sustain them; the auxiliary Doritos will serve perfectly both as protection against the oncoming storm and as backup rations for the siege to come.

Everyone's scared. No getting around it. Techno checks his weather app a little too often, hoping for news about changes, and he confesses he's still hung up over the possibility that his flight home will be cancelled. Tommy does laps up and down the stairwell once they find out that the front doors actually are threatening to flood and that the whole building is closed off except for the fire escapes - he burns off nervous energy slightly faster than he produces it, so he's never gone for long, though. Phil is absent from the conversation just a bit too much while he minds the thunder, and none of them are going to fault him for it, because he's Philza fucking Minecraft, he's allowed to have a flaw or two in his time. Wilbur's fear that things won't go perfectly is a very real reality at the moment, and he's dealing with that, with plenty of unrequested assistance from Tommy, who keeps him distracted in his down moments and waxes poetic about the vlog that could have been were they able to film that day. Theoretically, it would have been the best piece of film ever to grace the halls of YouTube.

Then again, Wilbur has never quite been able to translate theory into practice.

Still, though. They've got each other. And when the weather's this unpredictable, a constant as sure as his three good friends being by his side is as reliable as he's ever gonna get.

It's not perfect, but it never is. What matters is that they're doing the best they can with the hand they've been dealt - and that's as good as it's gonna get.

He's not sure he minds imperfect when it looks like this.

**Author's Note:**

> i will now, after this fic, be going into hibernation. next time you see me will be the release of the first part of the gogy companion fic which i've had written for several months. spiderinnit 2 is on its way, boys.


End file.
